I don’t remember the pain of the sting. I was two years old, having a tea-party with my sister on the floor. I think I remember my dad stomping on the offender and my brother examining the flattened corpse in the dust-pan. I know I remember the industrial over-heat lights of the clinic and my father’s voice telling the receptionist “scorpion sting”. I remember a female voice replying “that’s the second one today.” It was a small town on the Texas/Mexican border with few doctors and fewer clinics. Dad says that the doctor on-call came in wearing a jersey and carrying a bat. He was at a baseball game. But I don’t remember that. I don’t remember the jersey. I don’t remember the bat. I don’t remember the treatment prescribed or the car ride. I remember lights and a brief conversation, but what is most strange to me is that I don’t remember the pain of the sting.